


Coffee Stains

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, First Meetings, M/M, PTSD John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-20 23:43:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1530116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was having a bad day. He didn't expect to meet a mysterious stranger. He didn't expect to get stuck in an elevator on their first meeting. And he certainly didn't expect to fall for him like he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee Stains

**Author's Note:**

> So here it is: my first Sherlock fanfic! Really, my first fanfic of any kind, so go easy on me :) Feedback is much appreciated, so tell me what you think. Thank you for reading <3

It was one of those days.

Sleep deprived and cranky, John Watson hurried past the gossiping youths. One more tardy would more likely than not cost him his job.  And he didn’t have anywhere else to go. Coffee cooling rapidly against his palm, he checked the time yet again and cursed under his breath, renewing his pace.

The elevator was just in sight now, the steel doors sliding shut. It was like watching the world slip through his fingers, his efforts go down the drain. There was no avoiding it. He’d have to run.

Hitching up his cane in one hand and raising his coffee above the sea of heads in the other, John broke out into an awkward gait that was only somewhat faster than his previous stride. Hobbling uncomfortably through the crowd, he could see it falling away. He could see the doors closing on him, everything disintegrating into nothing.

“Hold it please!” A gloved hand shot out just as John arrived. His leg was beginning to ache and he could feel his breath coming in short puffs, but at this point, John was nothing but grateful. “Hey, thanks.”

It was only now that he got a look at his saviour. Tall and mysterious didn’t even begin to cover it. Suddenly, he felt somewhat… messy standing next to this man, like a child who had put his trousers on backwards. The other occupant of the elevator carried himself with an air of self-assured confidence. John bet he had never woken up ten minutes before work and had to put his shoes on in the cab. Just then, he turned his startling blue eyes onto John, who started and looked away, embarrassed to have been caught looking.

Was he blushing? Oh this was just fantastic. He had somehow turned into a giggling teenage girl at the sight of this stranger.

“The name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

What was that? A hand. Oh yes, he was expected to shake the hand. “John Watson, nice to meet you.”

Sherlock took this opportunity to look over the doctor. One scan told him all he needed to know. John Watson was not the sort of man that was difficult to understand. He wore his heart on his sleeve and allowed it to rule his head.

Fool, Sherlock thought.

Then the elevator stopped.

Sherlock glanced over at his companion, rolling his eyes, but stopped dead halfway. Coffee was pooling out of the cup where John had dropped it. He was already on the ground, eyes wide. It was obvious he was somewhere far away.

Then the lights went out, and Sherlock could have sworn he heard John whimper.

“John? John, are you alright?”

The lack of response was only slightly worrying. Sherlock knelt down by the doctor, ignoring that the floor was sticky and would probably ruin his suit. “John?” he murmured again, hesitantly reaching a hand out. He could feel the other man flinch away at his touch, and for some reason, he didn’t like it one bit. Sherlock pulled off his scarf and dropped it over John’s shoulders, taking care not to startle him again. Then he sat back, somewhat uncomfortable. What did one do next?

John was in his own personal hell. The sudden change in environment had brought out his claustrophobia, and the next thing he knew, he was back in Afghanistan. The confinement, the darkness, the _waiting_. It flooded his senses, and he was no longer aware of where he was. He could feel the heat blistering on his back. He could taste the gunpowder on his tongue. And he could hear the screams.

Perhaps he screamed too. Nothing was clear. He was vaguely aware of a smooth voice talking somewhere in a hazy memory, just out of reach. It was all he was sure of. So John focused on that voice, focused on allowing it to pull him out of his own mind and back into the world.

And it did.

John found himself staring into the eyes of the man who had saved him not once, but twice in one day.

“You’re alright,” Sherlock breathed.

The lights came back on, breaking the shorter man out of his reverie. John scrambled to his feet, only just realising how embarrassing that entire experience had been. The doors opened and both of them stepped out together, neither of them wanting to walk away. John studied Sherlock’s face. How was it possible that in such a short period of time he had come to trust this complete stranger so much? Already, he felt safe, almost like coming home: a luxury he had never had. Until now, it seemed.

“Right. Sorry about that.” He couldn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes, keeping his gaze trained on the coffee splashed across his shoes.

“Not at all.”

“Er… Thank you. For helping.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Sherlock locked his eyes on John. How was it possible that in such a short period of time he had become this concerned about one person? One average ordinary person. Nothing special about him in the slightest, and yet…

“Uh… I was wondering… would you like to get a coffee later? You know, as mine’s been trashed.”

Sherlock looked down, and sure enough his trousers were newly decorated with stains of dark brown caffeine. He made to open his mouth, once, twice, but was unable to answer.

“I’ll pick you up at noon.” He looked up, and saw the grin on the shorter man’s face.

Sherlock nodded awkwardly, and made to turn away, but John caught his arm and pulled him back. It was over so fast, even Sherlock barely had the time to process it, but as John walked away, he pressed his fingers to his cheekbone, where the other man’s lips had pressed so briefly, so coveted.

_“Thank you.”_


End file.
